


jeanmarco oneshots

by bygoneboy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: JeanMarco Week, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2491832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bygoneboy/pseuds/bygoneboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>best of jeanmarco week</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Olympus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Olympus. 
> 
> _A child of spring had no quarrel with death. Death was a part of life, after all. But a god of the dead had no reason to want him-- or so he’d thought._

It would be easier for Marco to kill him if he could keep his hands steady. 

He has his fingers wrapped around the knife’s handle. He’s kneeling above him with the blade poised over his heart. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right, for him to be kept here. Marco never asked to be a prisoner. 

His palms are sweating.

It’ll be like killing a spider, he tells himself. Like crushing the life out of one of those ugly eight-legged monstrosities. All he has to do is bring the knife down, once. Twice, if he misses the heart the first time.

He’d always felt bad, killing spiders. Even if they were scary. Every creature had the right to life, his mother used to tell him. Being the son of a goddess who loved earth’s fertility as much as she loved her children, it was only in his nature to be so gentle, so kind. 

He licks parched lips, swallows past a dry mouth. Speaking objectively, he isn’t even sure that he could kill a god if he _wanted_ to-- and he does want to, doesn’t he?

It had been beautiful, the day he’d been taken. Blue sky, soft wind. Then cracks had split the meadows, uprooted the trees, and he’d been whisked away to the Underworld before he’d had a chance to say a word.

A child of spring had no quarrel with death. Death was a part of life, after all. 

But a god of the dead had no reason to want him-- or so he’d thought. 

His name was Jean, and he was as callous as Marco was compassionate, confining Marco to his Hell with his jaw set and eyes blazing. For the way he made him watch as he drove the dead mercilessly, for the way he spoke so sharply, for the way he chained him to a place that refused to entertain even one flower, Marco had hated him.

Then one day he made him laugh.

He had been accompanying Jean on a walk he had not wanted to take, through the Underworld’s version of a garden. The bushes were blackened, the trees dry and dead. And the birth of the laugh itself had been an accident, a surly remark that he hadn’t meant for the god to hear. But the moment Marco heard the clear, happy peals issuing from his captor’s mouth was also the moment the twisted, gnarled branch of the tree above his head unfurled one, small, green bud. 

Marco’s heart had leapt at the sight. 

It couldn’t have been a coincidence but he had to be sure. His heart pounding hard against his ribs, Marco had made another tentative attempt at humor-- and with another chorus of laughter from Jean-- 

The bud _blossomed._

It was too tempting, the sight of the green leaves and the crimson flower at its center. He looked at Jean’s smile and imagined the whole tree springing forth in color and that’s the only reason he did it, moved forward and kissed him, the god of the dead. He kissed him as he laughed and after the first kiss he kissed him again, and again, and again, and Jean never stopped grinning, even as his hands twisted their way into Marco’s hair, even as he backed Marco up against the tree, even as leaves unfolded and flowers burst from the boughs and limbs over their heads, petals drifting to the ground, bark rough against Marco’s back but Marco remembers, later, with Jean asleep beside him, thinking that Jean would look beautiful in the sunlight. 

He sometimes describes to Jean the way snow feels on skin, how a breeze caresses the back of the neck, and Jean imagines it all with his eyes closed. Marco can see it when he bites his lip, how badly Jean wants what Marco knows. It is for that reason and that reason alone that Marco understands he is Jean’s prisoner: a graveyard god’s shred of life, a light flickering in a place filled with nothing but shadow. 

Maybe it would be easier for him to be alone if he could know warmth the way that Marco did. 

If only his hands would stop shaking, Marco could be done with all of it. He is nothing but a plaything and he is tired, tired of being a kept man, something plucked from the surface out of curiosity, a kind of fascination that Jean will, without a doubt, throw away once his infatuation with the living has faded. 

He is afraid to admit how much it would hurt if Jean didn’t need him.

Jean stirs beneath him, just slightly, lips parted slightly, tousled hair falling over his eyes, and Marco’s breath comes quicker. He could see the sky again, revisit the meadows he used to know. If he could just bring the knife _down--_

“Marco?” Jean whispers, lids lifting slowly, tawny eyes gleaming in the dark. 

He feels tears well in the corners of his eyes. If only his hands were steady, if he could just bring the knife down…

Jean exhales faintly, his body so still beneath Marco’s grip-- and warm, too. It had always surprised him, how warm Jean was, in a place so cold. 

“You should do it,” Jean says, voice catching. “We both know I deserve it. And you deserve the surface, Marco, more than I deserve you.” 

Marco’s sobs shake as bad as his hands, and he flings the knife to the ground with a fervor like fury. 

He kisses Jean with a softness like love. 

It was so dark before, living down below.

Now every time Marco sees him smile it is a piece of the sun.


	2. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Homecoming 
> 
> _He wants to take him somewhere where they can be alone. He wants to wipe away the steel set of his jaw, ease the stiff jacket off of his shoulders. God knows he already carries too much there, the weight of the world, his own Atlas-_
> 
> _There was a reason he hadn’t joined the Survey Corps._

The morning of the return of the 87th expedition beyond the walls is cold, rooftops frosted over in a thin pale white film, the snow swept from doorsteps to make way for the masses that have flooded the interior streets to watch the progression. 

It’s like a death march, Marco thinks. It _is_ a death march. The only difference is that they are marching away from the grave instead of towards it, that's all: leaving with victory in their hearts and returning bloodied and broken and disillusioned, always disillusioned, always…

There was a reason he hadn’t joined the Survey Corps. 

He could hardly stand watching them throw their lives away, there wasn’t a chance in hell that he could have ever had the heart to throw away his own. He was comfortable in his position, enjoyed the safety of his home. Sure, he’d had his own kind of disillusionment in the Military Police, but that was only to have been expected. 

He’d had to grow up sometime. They both had.

Marco hears the cries of the Commander’s name before he actually sees him, but the thrill that flutters in the bottom of his stomach is the same, and so are the crashing waves of soothing repetition in his mind, _thank god, thank god, thank-_

The jeers are as cruel as always.

“What's the body count, huh?” 

“Did you at least accomplish something this time around?” 

“Your _hope for humanity_ didn’t murder anyone on the way, did he?”

Slouched in his saddle, his gold-brown eyes sweep the crowd, searching. When they meet Marco’s he nods, once, face like stone, and if Marco didn’t know him like he does he would think that the shouts of the mob were falling on deaf ears. Facades have become his first resort. He wonders, stepping out of the shadows, moving forward as the Commander dismounts, what mask he will wear this time.

When Marco falls into step beside him he does not acknowledge him again, does not look his way a second time. Marco speaks out anyway, as they make their way through the throng of admirers and skeptics alike. 

“The Queen will want the first copy of the expedition’s report,” he says quietly. As if he hasn't heard, the Commander passes his horse’s reins off to a young recruit. 

“Krista can wait until my soldiers are put to rest properly,” he mutters finally. 

Marco sighs. “You really shouldn’t call her-”

“That’s how I knew her, so that’s what I’ll call her.” His strides lengthen as his words sharpen, but Marco keeps up with him easily. “Call her Queen, call her Historia or Reiss or whatever the hell you want, it’s all the same, what’s in a name, anyway-”

“Jean,” says Marco gently, and the Commander flinches. 

What’s in a name but everything you want to forget? 

He wants to take him somewhere where they can be alone. He wants to wipe away the steel set of his jaw, ease the stiff jacket off of his shoulders. God knows he already carries too much there, the weight of the world, his own Atlas- 

There was a reason he hadn’t joined the Survey Corps. 

“I’m- I’m glad you’re safe,” he stammers, trying to put everything into the few words he still can say to his face without breaking apart, trying to let him know that even after all these years, and all the things they’ve said to each other, bitter exchanges, resentful glances, arguing like petulant children and storming away only to count down the days until the next time they come face-to-face…

Jean’s eyes flicker to Marco’s and away again. “Safety is an illusion,” he replies. “But it’s nice to know that you’re still living in denial.” 

His heart aches. Talk to me like you used to, he begs silently. Smile like you used to, before you made your decision and I made mine. 

How had it happened? When had Eren’s passion swayed him, changed his mind? Marco had thought they were in it together- but then suddenly it was Jean or the Military Police, and Marco thinks about it every day, the fact that Jean had forced him to choose. 

They leave the streets behind, the Commander closing the door to his bureau behind them, and Marco can’t stand it anymore, the fact that even without the eyes of everyone on them, they play make-believe, like they were nothing and always have been nothing. 

“Go on,” Jean says shortly, turning to stare him down. “Run back to your Queen, tell her I’ll write the fucking report after we’ve had a ceremony for every soldier who didn’t make it back alive, after we’ve burned the remains of everyone we could _find._ She can wait, damn it, there are some things that are more important than your fucking politics and paperwork-” 

He catches Jean’s arm as Jean makes to turn away. “Jean,” he says helplessly, “I’ve never said it isn’t hard, what you do-”

Jean whirls on him with the fury Marco remembers in Eren. “What would you know about it?” he hisses. “You could never _imagine_ what we see, what we do to survive out there, you sit on your ass in Sina and sign forms you probably don’t even take the time to read while I order my friends to be _slaughtered in front of me-”_

If Marco didn’t know him like he does he wouldn’t see the way his lip quivers. He would confuse the waver in his voice for intensity, mistake the gleam in his eyes for anger.

But Marco knows him inside and out, whether they will ever admit it or not. 

He takes Jean in his arms, and Jean cries into his shirt like he is young again, tears hot on Marco’s neck, shaking hands digging into his back. It hurts, but it has always hurt when it comes to Jean, and Marco doesn’t care anymore. 

“You’re okay,” he whispers, stroking his hair with a tenderness that the Commander has never allowed, but that Jean just might. “You’re okay, you’re here, you’re home.” 

And Jean knows that despite everything, he’s right.


	3. Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: Ash.
> 
> _He doesn’t come every night but he does come often. On rare occasions, by the time he sneaks out of his own room, Marco is already sleeping, and those nights are some of his favorites, when he can nuzzle the tip of his cold nose against the back of Marco’s neck, wrap goosebumped arms around Marco’s warmth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've wanted to write shotgunning JeanMarco for AGES.

Jean knows how to break into Marco’s room better than Marco does, and he supposes that at the end of it all, that says more about their relationship than they’ll ever put into words. 

They’d gone from best friends to strangers in under a year; then Jean’s parents had made the decision to move into the suburbs and, somehow, he’d ended up living two doors down from Marco. So they’d been neighbors and nothing else for a little while, which in retrospect seemed easy to do, but the closeness of it all had led them straight back to best friends-- and then over the summer something had changed and they were strangers again, or Jean had _thought_ they were strangers, until Marco had dragged him under the bleachers during the first football game of the season and kissed him. 

After he’d kissed him he’d cried, for reasons Jean hadn’t thought to ask about, and then kissed him again. They’d both been a little drunk and the makeout had been a little sloppy but it hadn’t seemed to matter, because they’d done it again after school the next day-- sober-- and then during that weekend and the next weekend, too, and now they were here, and Jean was climbing through Marco’s bedroom window, wondering what they were. 

It’s easy to get in-- through Marco’s window, that is. He just has to clamber up to the window ledge of the garage and then pull himself up to the garage roof; from there it’s a narrow jump to the ledge of the balcony, and once he’s over the balcony railing it’s simply a matter of whether Marco’s window is open for him. 

Tonight, he’s left it unlocked. Jean likes it better when he does; it makes him feel like he’s supposed to be there. Marco has a habit of making him feel like he belongs-- at least until it’s morning, and he has to scramble down the rooftop without being seen by Marco’s parents.

He slips through and closes the window, pulling the blinds shut behind him, but Marco doesn’t look up at his entrance. Jean knows that about him, that he’s always been a fast learner, and so it figures that he’s used to it already. 

“Yo,” Jean says, fidgeting awkwardly, hands twisting together. It sounds lamer than he meant it to. Who says _yo_ anyway? Losers, the kinds of kids who skip classes and set their jaw tough-- losers like Jean. _Yo._ What the fuck. 

“Hmm,” Marco responds, head bent over the book on his desk. The lamp in front of him is the only source of light in the room, and the deep shadows cast over his face make him look like some kind of ghoul. Jean thinks about initiating it all: kissing his way up the back of his neck, tugging at his shirt. But the tense set of Marco’s shoulders and those shadows make him stay back, make him a little nervous, a little unsure.

He doesn’t come every night but he does come often. On rare occasions, by the time he sneaks out of his own room, Marco is already sleeping, and those nights are some of his favorites, when he can nuzzle the tip of his cold nose against the back of Marco’s neck, wrap goosebumped arms around Marco’s warmth. There aren’t ever any awkward introductory exchanges, on nights like those. Just Jean, burying his face into Marco’s shoulder, mouthing against Marco’s ear, and Marco, smiling into his pillow, sleepy sighs hitching in his throat every time Jean rocks against him. 

“What’re you working on?” Jean asks, to distract himself from the space in between them that he doesn’t understand. “Math, or...or what?” 

“It’s called _The Trial,”_ Marco answers distantly. “It’s one of Kafkas, ‘m reading it for English seminar.”

“I thought you’d be in bed by now,” Jean mutters, glancing at the clock: _2:54 AM._ If he sounds a little put-out, it’s only because he’s been thinking about those sleepy sighs: but Marco’s nose is still stuck in _The Trial,_ and he can’t seemed to be bothered to answer. Jean taps his fingers against his hip impatiently. “Haven’t you already read that, anyway?” 

“It’s good,” Marco says. “And we have a test tomorrow and I want to be prepared. Hey, listen to this: _the commentators tell us: the correct understanding of a matter and misunderstanding the matter are not mutually exclusive--”_

Jean bites back a sigh. “C’mon, are you gonna read me some dumb book, or are you gonna make out with me?”

“Essays are gonna help me pass this test, Jean, and if I don’t have specific references prepared to use--”

“Marco,” Jean groans. “Quit stressing about it, you’ll do fine. Loosen up for once, take a break.” 

“You don’t understand!” Marco turns in his chair faster than Jean expects and he blinks at the unhappy strain in his expression. “Listen, it’s easier for you. You’ve got a-- a nose piercing and a tattoo on your shoulder and your parents know you’re gay and they don’t care! You don’t even have to try at most things--”

 _“That’s_ not true,” Jean snaps. “I work damn hard--”

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m--” Marco’s voice trembles. “But everything just comes so easy to you, and you don’t have to worry because you’re good at the right things but I’m just trying to keep my head above water, okay--?”

At this point Jean could get angry so easily; it’s happened before. They’ve gone around this track enough times to know that he could get angry, could twist it into a fight, leave through the window he came in through. Let them become strangers again, and then neighbors and then best friends all over again. 

But he also knows what it’s like, to feel like it’s him against the world. 

So he pulls out a joint, instead. 

Marco’s eyes widen. “Uh,” he stammers, the agitation draining from his voice in seconds, replaced with uncertainty. “Jean...what’s that?”

“What does it look like?” Jean raises one eyebrow. “You’ve been high before, right?”

Marco twists his mouth. “Once,” he says, setting the book down and turning to face Jean, arms crossed. “And it was last year-- Eren Jaeger brought a bong to the cross-country sleepover and when I took a hit I panicked so bad that Armin thought I was having a heart attack. He called my parents and they drove to Eren’s house and picked me up, and I got grounded for a month.” He frowns at Jean but it’s bordering closer to nervousness than apprehension. “You can laugh at me if you want.”

“I’m not gonna,” Jean says automatically. He crosses behind Marco’s chair, noticing the nervous way Marco’s eyes follow him, putting the unlit joint in the corner of his mouth and putting his hands on Marco’s shoulders. His fingers dig little circles into the tight muscle there, knuckles pressing into the knots gently. “It’s not unusual to panic a little when it’s your first time-- especially when you’re as strung-up as you are, Marco.”

“I’m not--”

Jean works his fingers into Marco’s neck, and Marco’s head drops forward with a soft groan. 

“I’m not getting high with you at 3 in the morning on a Wednesday,” he mumbles all the same. 

“Good,” Jean replies. “‘Cause we’re not gonna get high, we’re gonna get buzzed.” 

Marco looks back at him. “It’s...it’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

“Marco, hey, no.” He leans down, presses his lips against the base of the other boy’s neck. “I promise, it’ll be fine. I’m not gonna take more than two hits and you’re not gonna panic, ‘kay? Not the way we’re gonna do it. It’ll feel good.”

“I should read,” Marco says, dazed and distracted by Jean’s fingers in his hair. “I don’t have time…” 

“You deserve a break,” Jean croons. “Lemme take care of you, baby, c’mon.”

There’s something about the pet names that always seem to get to him.

“You’re a bad influence,” he sighs as Jean pulls the lighter out of his back pocket, puffs on the joint, rolls it between his fingers to even out the flame. With Marco sitting, the height difference is gonna be awkward, so he motions for Marco to stand. 

“Can we…” he jerks his head toward the bed. Not as awkward as _yo,_ at least, but still pretty awkward. 

“Uh-- yeah, sure.” Marco sits on the edge of the mattress, scoots back, crossing his legs and biting his lower lip, looking anywhere but Jean. “You can...yeah.” 

Jean crawls toward him, still balancing the joint between his lips. He curls his legs underneath him, curls his fingers against Marco’s knee, takes the joint in his other hand and pauses, just for a second. 

“Just relax,” he says. “And follow my lead, okay?” 

“Okay,” Marco repeats. Away from the lamp light, he looks different. Less sure of himself. His eyes are darker, his face hotter and tinged with pink when Jean’s hand moves from his knee up toward his neck, then cupping his cheek, thumb grazing the spot under his lower lid. 

“Relax,” Jean breathes, and brings the joint to his lips and inhales.

He holds it for a few seconds, eyes trained on Marco and Marco looking at him like he’s afraid to look away. Then he leans forward, slow, his fingers sliding into Marco’s hair. 

“Uh-- Jean--” The freckled boy stammers as he draws nearer. “What are you--”

He presses his lips against Marco’s, and exhales.

Marco’s mouth is warm, his body incredibly still underneath Jean’s hands. He breathes the smoke in softly and Jean can feel it, the intake of breath. He coughs as it does down and Jean draws away slightly to press open-mouthed kisses against the corner of Marco’s lips, his jaw. 

“How’s that?” he murmurs in between kisses, and Marco turns his head to meet Jean’s mouth halfway. 

“That was--” he kisses Jean again. “You’re so-- it’s three in the morning, you’re so random--”

Jean tugs at the back of his hairline and Marco stumbles, sputters, stops, lets Jean kiss his way down his neck, focusing on the spot just below his jaw that he knows drives Marco crazy. His hands find their way to Jean’s hips and he hooks his fingers into the belt loops of his jeans, leaning in when Jean leans away, tugging him forward when Jean backs off. 

“Okay, tiger,” Jean says, smiling a little, but he holds Marco at arm’s length, studying him. “I’m serious, how was that?” 

“Yeah, that…I mean, that felt--” Marco’s words are rougher than Jean has ever heard them. “I, uh...I really liked that, Jean.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I--”

Jean rests his forehead against Marco’s. “You...wanna do it again?” 

His eyes are so dark. “Yeah,” he whispers. “It’s nice-- and you, uh-- you taste like smoke.” 

“Oh,” Jean whispers back. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s--” He bites his lip, eyes flickering down and back. “It’s nice.”

They breathe each other’s air, quiet. The tip of Marco’s nose brushes Jean’s and when Jean swallows, it’s louder than he wants it to be. 

“I’m sorry I kissed you at the game,” Marco blurts. “I know I was drunk, and you were drunk, and I wasn’t trying to rope you into anything, honest.”

Jean blinks at him. “What do you mean?” 

“It’s just-- I mean, you don’t have to keep doing this, you know, if you don’t want to.” 

There’s a pause, and it goes on for longer than Jean knows what to do with. 

“You, uh...want me to stop coming?”

“No!” Marco’s eyes widen. “Only, I know I’m not very fun.”

“I think this is fun,” Jean says.

“That’s not-- you know I don’t go out a lot.” Marco looks like he regrets bringing it up at all, eyes big and brown and the sweetest eyes Jean has ever seen. “I’m sorry, I’m not like you, that I like reading Kafka and studying is more important to me than parties--”

“I’m sorry I called your book dumb,” Jean says. Was that what this was about?

Marco shakes his head. “I guess I’m just...thinking. You’re so...different, and I’m so boring, and I mean, eventually you’ll get tired of this, so I’m just letting you know, okay? This isn’t an actual relationship and you can duck out whenever you want--”

“You want it to be,” Jean says. “A real relationship, you want it to be one, yeah?”

Marco looks at him like he’s afraid to look away, and like he’s actually afraid, too. “We could be friends,” Marco offers.

“Or you could go out with me,” Jean says softly. “You wanna go out with me, Marco?”

Marco kisses him hard. Hard enough to hurt, but soft enough to yield, and Jean lets go of his wrists and cradles his face in his hands and kisses him back, kisses him until it’s slow, steady, until the tension breaks and Marco softens beneath him, until he lets Jean touch him.

He takes another hit, still holding Marco like he’s precious but not like he’s fragile, and then he kisses him again, smoke hazing the space between their mouths. 

And when Marco breathes in this time, it feels like the first breath he’s taken in a long time.


	4. Uniform

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: Uniform.
> 
> _He never would have taken Jean for the kind of man to stay, to repair. But when Marco wakes up to the sound of his own screams, sweat dripping hot and blood running cold, Jean wraps his arms around him without a second thought, and tells him—_
> 
> _Right here._

It’s harder to do the buttons on the Survey Corps jacket with one arm.

He shrugs into the left sleeve easily but drawing the rest of the fabric over the stump of his right proves harder, and straightening out the folds, shifting it until it’s comfortable, fixing the collar— it’s more difficult than it used to be and by the time he gets to the buttons, he’s frustrated, and tired, and wants nothing more than to fall back into bed and forget about going out altogether.

That’s when Jean usually takes over.

He lets Marco try to do most things by himself, and he gives him the space he thinks Marco deserves. But when Marco gets himself worked up to the point where his throat is aching with dry sobs he refuses to release, Jean steps in like he’s been waiting for it all along.

He starts with the lowest button, and even though his hands are deft and his fingers quick, he takes his time. Goes slowly, carefully, like it’s a sacred ceremony instead of the result of a cripple’s failure. When he gets to the top he runs his hands down Marco’s chest and smiles, and Marco loves him for that, for the way he never says a word about any of it.

He loves him for a lot of things.

For the way he ties his shoes for him with a steadiness that makes it seem like he’s been doing it for years. For the way he glares at the people who openly stare. For the way he worships Marco’s body like nothing has changed, kissing the disfigurement on the right half of Marco’s face with the same tenderness as he kisses the smooth skin on the left, running his hands over the jagged scars above his hipbone like they deserve every touch. 

For the way he had taken Marco’s remaining hand in his own when Marco had unraveled the bandages in front of him for the first time, his hands shaking and his heart beating hard in his chest— 

_He’ll be afraid of you._

When the bandages fell away completely Jean had squeezed his fingers gently, and Marco thinks maybe that was the moment that he knew that Jean had loved him, too.

He never would have taken Jean for the kind of man to stay, to repair. But when Marco wakes up to the sound of his own screams, sweat dripping hot and blood running cold, Jean wraps his arms around him without a second thought, and tells him—

_Right here._

It was Jean, after all, who had saved him, who had found him as he was bleeding out, the tears and gouges in his skin stained red, his arm hanging limply from his side. It had been Jean who had carried him out from the center of the battle’s fray. Marco doesn’t recall many details from Trost but he does remember that: that, and the hoarse way that Jean had said his name, before he had lost consciousness altogether.

The arm had been lost from the minute the titan’s fingers had tightened around him, but Jean had saved him— and continues to even now, lacing up his shoes and buttoning his jacket and making him whole in the only way he can, with soft touches and gentle words.

 _Right here,_ he whispers, as Marco trembles in his arms, chokes out scattered words, tries to breathe. And Marco falls asleep to the sound of his voice and loves him, loves him, loves him, with everything he has left.


End file.
